


it's easier to be angry

by horatioandophelia



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist!R, COVID-19, Cooking, Depression, Depressive Episode, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Grantaire is madly madly in love that's it that's the fic, M/M, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Requited Unrequited Love, Self-Isolation, They're In Love Your Honor, Unrequited Love, lasagne, law student!E
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27093037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horatioandophelia/pseuds/horatioandophelia
Summary: "So you haven’t ever felt this way before - that does you some credit, I suppose. At least you’re not wallowing deliberately.”Enjolras sneered. It looked awful on him, and Grantaire’s heart twisted sickeningly. “Wallowing?”“Definitely,” said Grantaire. “Wallowing like a motherfucker. ‘Cause it’s easier to sit in it, right? Easier to be angry at all the injustice and abuse, easier to just sit down and give up and sit in the sadness and the anger like a big vat of bile. Fucking disgusting but it feels good.”Enjolras frowned, but his eyes began to focus on Grantaire for the first time since he’d arrived.[Enjolras, overwhelmed by self-isolation during COVID-19, falls into a depressive episode. R is the only person who can get to him.]
Relationships: Combeferre/Éponine Thénardier, Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 105





	it's easier to be angry

27 September 2020

Hands deep in his coat pockets, Grantaire shoved his nose into his collar, ignoring the way the wind bit at his ears, eyes locked on the pavement, mind racing. He passed the tiny bistro where he, Joly, Bosseut, and Musichetta had all gone one time at three in the morning, drunk and laughing at everything in sight - so long ago, when they had all partied a little too hard and lived a little too dangerously. He tried not to think about it; he wasn’t sure where that Grantaire was anymore.

The apartment he was searching for was up ahead, up three sets of rickety stairs and down a poorly-lit open hallway.  _ Man of the people.  _ He snorted softly to himself. All the money in the world and the stupid son of a bitch wouldn’t take it - rich parents and not a penny of it went to their son. What a way to live. Grantaire had never disguised his own willingness to receive money from the upper class, which often got him in trouble with a certain golden leader, but as he saw it, art was art and money was money and he couldn’t just donate  _ everything  _ to women’s shelters and children’s hospitals. He made a pittance anyway.

_ 2 July 2020 _

_ “I’m worried about him,” said Combeferre, unprompted, over a beer at Eponine’s apartment.  _

_ “Why?” snorted Grantaire, knowing exactly who Combeferre was talking about as soon as he had spoken. “He’s got funding from the university, he’s getting the law degree to make sure he can fix it all as soon as he gets out, he’s not exactly suffering.” _

_ “He’s not doing any of the stuff he used to,” said Combeferre, frowning. “I can’t even really put my finger on it.” _

_ Grantaire tried to roll his eyes exasperatedly, ignoring the spark of concern in his chest. “So what, he’s taking a break from the activism? Doesn’t that, like, help his blood pressure and shit? Come on, Ferre, is it really that bad?” _

_ “He’s stopped watching the news,” said Combeferre, and Grantaire’s stomach dropped. Next to him, Eponine’s head snapped up from her phone.  _

_ “What?” they said simultaneously. _

_ He nodded solemnly. “I’ve never seen him like this before, not even when it came out that Trump’s impeachment didn’t go through.” _

_ Grantaire’s heart was thumping harder than he wanted to acknowledge. “You should go hang out with him this week,” he said to Combeferre.  _

_ Regarding him, Combeferre pushed his glasses up his nose. “Why don’t you?” _

_ Grantaire attempted a smile. “Come on, man,” he scoffed. “He wouldn’t want to see me if the sky was falling.” _

The clouds were coming down over the city, hovering over the roofs of the skyscrapers and blurring the lights blinking way up at the tops at the approach of dusk. There weren’t many people in the streets save for others just as bundled up as himself, so there was a comfortable, isolated feeling of walking through something like a dreamscape - peaceful, unobtrusive, quiet. Snow was beginning to fleck down from the low-hanging clouds, dusting his hair as he walked and landing on his eyelashes. 

He could remember the day they’d met - the feeling of being split blissfully open, head to foot, by a bolt of golden lightning. The feeling of rightness, the unmatched automatic declaration of his soul, spread at the feet of this righteous angel. Falling in love had never been difficult - it was always the staying in love, before. But this time… It wasn’t even negotiable, somehow. At first he had cultivated the feeling a little, letting it grow and bloom before he shoved it aside like he always had before. 

But this time, the love had grown oak roots in his soul, wrapping around his ribcage and staying put no matter how hard he tried. And he had tried, so many times, so many people, so many bottles of wine and cartons of cigarettes and tubes of Winsor Yellow paint on his canvases - it remained. Thinking back on it, it was probably the beauty at first - the god-like visage that fit so nicely into his dreams, fantasies, musings, portraits - and then afterward when the allure of the beauty might have faded, the brilliance of his mind had asserted itself and Grantaire was gone, sold, eaten alive with love. 

The asshole had made him a lot of money: all the portraits of a beautiful, furious god in oils, in acrylics, in sculpture always sold quickly; his muse was a good one. And no one really stopped to analyse how much agony went into those portraits, how every line and gentle brush of color was an adoration, a consummation, a dedication. Grantaire belonged to him, body and soul, heart and mind, if only --

_ Stop. He isn’t yours. He won’t ever be yours. _

Blinking, he inhaled hard, focusing on the cracks in the pavement, and tried again to think about what he was going to say.

_ 21 July 2020 _

_ “I can’t even remember the last time he talked about a protest or a meeting or anything,” said Jehan, hugging themselves tightly. Courfeyrac put an arm around them gently.  _

_ “I know,” murmured Combeferre, looking lost. “He doesn’t even want to do Zoom meetings for L’A.B.C., it’s like he can’t find the point of doing it anymore. I can barely get him to eat dinner when I’m over there, and that’s not nearly as often as it should be now that me and Ep are engaged. It’s unbelievable, I don’t know what to do. I just never thought that he would be this way, I mean, out of all of us? Never him.” _

_“You’re lucky you get to see him,” said Courfeyrac, his arm still around Jehan’s shoulders. “I can hardly get him to text me back, let alone call or see him in person.”_ _  
_ _“You know, it’s weird,” added Bahorel. “‘Cause I don’t think it’s even because he’s scared of getting COVID, I think he’s just… Not really there anymore, I guess.”_

_ “Yeah,” said Jehan, their eyes filling with tears. “Guys, are we - is he - ?” _

_ “I’m going to call him right now,” said Combeferre firmly, nodding a little too aggressively for anyone to believe he wasn’t concerned. “And get a lasagne or something to take over there tonight.” _

_ “I think I’m going to head out, too,” said Bahorel, sighing. “Thanks for the invite, Courf.” _

_ “Here, I’ll show you out - I think I’m going to go make some tea,” said Jehan, their voice wobbling. Courfeyrac kissed the back of their hand as they stood up, giving them an encouraging smile as they moved into the kitchen.  _

_ Grantaire had stayed silent, but as Combeferre stood up to go out onto the balcony, he looked over at Courfeyrac. “Is he going to be okay?” he asked softly. _

_ Courfeyrac just shook his head slowly, eyes heavy. _

_ [20:13] You: hey just checking in on my favorite sjw, how’s olympus going? _

_ [Read 20:17] _

The stairs were covered in a light dusting of snow - they would be perilous in the dark, Grantaire knew, and made a mental note to try and get in and get out before night fell. He took his time climbing the stairs, ignoring how out of breath he was at the top -  _ skip the damn cigarettes once in a while, man -  _ and turning down the tiny hallway, trying to pick out the number ‘32’ on the peeling paint of the doors. Despite his better efforts to the contrary, he found the right door; there were even the scuff marks from when Marius had thrown a valiant fit of resistance when Combeferre and Courfeyrac kidnapped him for his bachelor party.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked. 

_ 27 August 2020 _

_ “Are you insane?” said Grantaire, trying to laugh. “Me? Me. You can’t be serious.” _

_ “I am dead serious,” said Combeferre, sounding dead serious. _

_ Grantaire blinked.  _

_ “Look, he won’t listen to me,” said Combeferre sadly. “I’ve tried being gentle about it, I’ve tried being a hardass, but nothing gets through to him. Courf and Jehan tried, too, but they didn’t even get more than a couple of words out of him. He won’t go to therapy, but he knows he isn’t okay. I know him - he thinks if he can just push through it it’ll be fine and he’ll go back to normal, but it isn’t getting better and I don’t think I can get to him anymore.” _

_ “And I can?” _

_ “Look,” sighed Combeferre, pushing his glasses up his nose, eyes closed. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a Hail Mary situation. But I’ve got nothing else left.” He opened his eyes, fixing Grantaire with a stare. Grantaire swallowed. “You always got under his skin. You always made him pissed off, you always made him think. If anyone could get to him, it’d be you.” _

_ “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobe, you’re my only hope,” joked Grantaire weakly.  _

_ Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “Do not bring Star Wars into this. That’s sacred.” _

_ Grantaire bit his lip, suitably chastened. “Right. Sorry.” _

No one answered. 

He knocked again, more insistent this time. When this too received no response, he yelled, “Combeferre said you’d be like this! Open the door, you moping bastard!”

After a good bit of reluctant stomping from within, the door opened. 

Grantaire felt the grin spread involuntarily across his face. 

“Hey, Apollo,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” asked Enjolras. He looked awful and beautiful at the same time and Grantaire hated his brain for wanting to push him against the door and kiss him softly, all over his face. 

“Making you soup, because I think it’ll be the first real meal you’ve had in weeks,” said Grantaire glibly. “You going to let me in or what?”

Enjolras grudgingly moved aside, closing the door behind him. 

“I’d ask how you’re doing but I think that’d be a pretty pointless inquiry,” said Grantaire drily, looking around at the empty boxes of cereal, dirty dishes, and nest of blankets on the couch. Enjolras, flopping back down onto the filthy couch, didn’t answer. 

“I’m doing alright, thanks. Yeah, I did make that sale last week, actually, thanks! All in all, doing pretty okay,” said Grantaire sarcastically, sitting down on an ancient chair that had once belonged to Courfeyrac’s family. Enjolras turned hateful eyes on him, and Grantaire stared right back, smirking at him. Enjolras’s nostrils flared, and he looked away.

“You’re not going to help,” he said. “You might as well leave, I’m not going to magically get better because you’re here.”

“How dare you,” said Grantaire mildly. “I came here to make you soup, of course you’re going to feel better. My soup is remarkable.”

“I don’t give a damn,” said Enjolras flatly.

“Then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought,” said Grantaire, smirking. Enjolras just looked at him, eyes empty.

“Hmm,” said Grantaire thoughtfully, regarding him. “I’m going to have a cigarette.”

“You’re not supposed - ”

“Wasn’t a question,” said Grantaire, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and flicking his lighter. “Want a drag?” he asked, extending the cigarette out towards Enjolras, who looked revolted. 

“Just as well,” said Grantaire amiably. “More for me. Anyway,” he continued. “I was thinking that you’re having too much of a good time up here by yourself. You’re being a major dick, you know. I didn’t wear a mask while I was walking here and you don’t even yell at me for it. For shame.”

Enjolras just shook his head slightly. 

“What, you’re not even going to give me enough respect to tell me I’m being an asshole? Jesus, Apollo. I came all this way just to - ”

“I know why you’re here,” interrupted Enjolras, his voice like gravel. “Don’t bother. Ferre was worried, yeah? So he sent you to come get me riled up or something and hoped that would fix me. Well, guess what - I’m not fixable. You wasted your time.”

Grantaire looked at him, incredulous, for a second before bursting into guffaws of laughter. “Oh my  _ God, _ ” he gasped. “You just said that! Those words! Just came out of your mouth! Oh my God, I should have been recording this conversation, holy  _ shit _ . I mean, I figured you were being an emo bitch, but I didn’t know it was this bad. Good God.”

Enjolras crossed his arms. “What does that mean?”

“You do realize, my dear Apollo, that you just sounded like every depressed angsty teenager that’s ever happened,” said Grantaire, still smiling. “Didn’t you have that phase? When you thought you were too uniquely and horribly broken for anyone to ever love you? Thought you were a monster? Any of this ringing a bell?”

Enjolras only shrugged. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Right, you were too busy with Speech and Debate and Student Government and volunteering to have a teenage crisis. Bold of me to assume. So you haven’t ever felt this way before - that does you some credit, I suppose. At least you’re not wallowing deliberately.”

Enjolras sneered. It looked awful on him, and Grantaire’s heart twisted sickeningly. “Wallowing?”

“Definitely,” said Grantaire, more serious now. “Wallowing like a  _ motherfucker. _ ‘Cause it’s easier to sit in it, right? Easier to be angry at all the injustice and abuse, easier to just sit down and give up and sit in the sadness and the anger like a big vat of bile. Fucking disgusting but it feels  _ good _ .”

Enjolras frowned, but his eyes began to focus on Grantaire for the first time since he’d arrived.

“It’s easier to stay there,” continued Grantaire, praying that he was saying the right thing. “It’s easier to stay hateful and bitter and broken and angry, to keep digging deeper into that dark void inside yourself. It’s easier to be angry than to pick yourself up when the world’s gone to shit and keep trying anyway. Trust me, I lived like that for years. It’s useless waiting for it to get better because - guess what? - it doesn’t ever get better when you live this way.”

Enjolras’s attention was fixed on him now, his blue eyes pinning Grantaire down in a faint echo of how they used to in meetings.

“I’m only going to say this once,” said Grantaire, staring back at Enjolras in a way he’d never dared to do before. “There’s people who need you - they’re hungry, they’re deprived of their rights, whatever. That doesn’t matter right now, because there’s always going to be people who need you because they deserve better. But Enjolras, right now?  _ You  _ deserve better. Like, this is completely unacceptable. And when I say you’re being a dick, it’s because you’re being a dick to  _ yourself.  _ And I’m not going to let you.”

Enjolras looked down, his jaw clenching. “R, you don’t even know - ”

“Shut the  _ fuck up _ , Enjolras, I do know. I know exactly. I’ve been watching the news and I’ve also been where you are right now. Don’t pull that with me.”

“You never watch the news,” said Enjolras slowly. “At meetings you never knew what was going on, you were always just… there. Starting arguments. You didn’t know anything.”

Grantaire swallowed. “Yes, I did. I read everything you did, I watched the news, and I know the law. I learned the most during my course at Paris out of all of us and I argued with you because I knew what I was talking about. You just never wanted to admit it to yourself because you hated me.”

Enjolras seemed to smile in spite of himself. “No, I didn’t,” he said quietly.

Grantaire’s heart suddenly kicked it into high gear, but he steadfastly ignored it. “Um, I’m pretty sure you did. I was there, Apollo. You were pretty clear about it.”

“Because you were wrong about everything,” said Enjolras petulantly. “Not because I didn’t  _ like  _ you.”

“What, so you do like me?” Grantaire joked. “Must’ve missed that. Did you declare your undying love for me somewhere in all the times that you told me I was a useless drunk?”  
“I - ” Enjolras looked away. “I don’t hate you,” he said quietly. 

Grantaire shook his head. “Well, that’s news to me,” he said. “That’s not the point, though. You gotta stop hating yourself, it’s not healthy.”

“I don’t - ”

“For God’s sake, Enjolras, shut  _ up.  _ Right now, you’re thinking that you’re useless and hopeless and worthless because you can’t fix everything that’s wrong right now. That’s the definition of hating yourself, and I’m not going to let you win this one.” He stood up decisively. “And I’m going to make some soup and we’re going to eat it and you’re going to stop shitting on everything. Including yourself.”

“Okay,” said Enjolras in a small voice. He looked up at Grantaire, and Grantaire was suddenly struck by how fragile he looked - there were bags under his eyes and he looked, of all things, near tears. 

“Hey,” said Grantaire softly. Shoving his racing heart aside, he knelt in front of Enjolras, pushing away the myriad of fantasies that decided to present themselves. “Come on.” He held his hand out to Enjolras, trying not to let it shake when Enjolras took it, and pulled him gently into the kitchen. “You’d better have a knife somewhere because you’re going to chop the tomatoes,” he said.

Enjolras, seemingly in spite of himself, smiled a little.

_ 12 September 2020 _

_ “We all know he hates me,” said Grantaire. “Who wouldn’t?” _

_ “R, for God’s sake,” sighed Jehan. “Could you cool it with the self-hatred for two seconds? He doesn’t hate you.” _

_ “Oh yeah? Then why’d he say I’m only an impediment to the meetings, a useless drunk, incapable of anything, etcetera?” countered Grantaire, chugging the rest of his wine bottle and setting it down on the table with a ‘thunk’ that earned him a glower from Combeferre, who was hunched over his laptop, speaking to the A.B.C. over Zoom. _

_ Jehan rolled their eyes. “Do you think he’d even answer your questions if he didn’t think what you had to say was worthwhile?” _

_ “Fair point,” said Grantaire grudgingly. “But that’s all I’m ever going to get, and you know it: Enjolras’s non-hatred. Hey, would you say he tolerates me? Is that the right word?” _

_ “How’d it go?” _

“Pretty good, actually,” said Grantaire, checking the time on his watch.  _ 20:25.  _ Holy shit, he’d spent three hours there? “I was surprised, myself. He didn’t even scream at me when I joked about the democratic process.”

_ “Wow.” _

“Yeah, I know, he almost seemed sad to see me go.”

_ “Well, that’s alright, because I think you should go back next week.” _

“Wh-- No. No way,” said Grantaire. 

_ “You’ve got to, he won’t respond to anyone else. If you actually had a conversation with him, you’re far better than the rest of us. You’ve got to go back.” _

“This isn’t a good idea,” said Grantaire, his heart thumping. “Go back?”

_ “R, he doesn’t hate you.” _

“Yeah, we actually discussed that, now that you mention it.”

_ “You’re helping him. And we all know you don’t hate him either,”  _ said Combeferre. Grantaire could hear him smirking through the phone. 

“Shut up.” 

Combeferre, that asshole, actually laughed. 

“Fine. If I’m going back next week, you’re buying lasagne materials, not me,” warned Grantaire.

_ “No problem,”  _ said Combeferre immediately.

“God  _ damn  _ it,” said Grantaire. “Fine. Fine! You wore me down.”

_ “That’s the spirit.” _

3 October 2020

“Can you pass the salt?”

“Yeah, here,” said Grantaire distractedly, passing Enjolras the shaker without taking his eyes off the pot of alfredo he was stirring. 

Enjolras took it slowly. “Um,” he said.

“What?” asked Grantaire, turning to look at him when Enjolras didn’t respond right away. He had his hair pulled back in a low bun but some of the curls still escaped and curled around his neck, reflecting the warm kitchen light and making him look like an angel. Not for the first time nor the last, Grantaire thought sadly.

“I,” Enjolras began again. “Uh.” He suddenly looked extremely uncertain of himself. 

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asked.

“Yes,” said Enjolras, looking down. “Just - thank you. For this.”

“Nah,” said Grantaire, unsure what to make of that - Apollo, thanking him? “I wouldn’t make a bunch of good food like this for just myself. You’re just an excuse.”

Enjolras laughed lightly. “If you say so,” he said. 

Grantaire glanced at him. Enjolras was looking right at him, a radiant expression on his face. It was so intimate, so like so many dreams that he’d had, that Grantaire’s breath caught and he yanked his gaze back to his bubbling alfredo. This - what?

“Is the salad dressing ready?” he asked, grasping for something to say. 

“Yeah,” said Enjolras softly. “Taste it for me?”  
And just as if they were comfortable with each other, like they were friends or - or -- Enjolras placed one hand on Grantaire’s arm and with the other lifted a spoon full of vinaigrette to Grantaire’s lips, watching him closely. Grantaire, transfixed and trembling, tasted it. 

“It’s good,” he said, voice shaking. Enjolras smiled at him, putting the spoon down on the counter.

“Good,” he said softly, reaching up to touch Grantaire’s cheek, pulling him down. Before Grantaire could fully process what was happening, soft lips pressed against his own, and he reeled back.  _ No. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want this. _

“Enjolras - ” he began, his voice breaking.

“No, please,” whispered Enjolras. Grantaire had never heard him say ‘please’ before. “I just - ”

“Just what?”

“I - I don’t know,” said Enjolras, withdrawing his hands. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire’s heart dropped to his feet. Automatically, he turned off the stove so the sauce wouldn’t burn, and wiped his hands on the dish towel. He could feel Enjolras watching him.

“I’m going to go,” he said, unable to meet Enjolras’s eyes. “Have - have a good night.”

“Okay,” whispered Enjolras. “I’m sorry,” he said again. As Grantaire desperately shoved his boots on, he asked, “Will - will I see you next week?”

“No,” said Grantaire before he could even think about it. “No, Apollo.”

4 October 2020

_ [08:21] Apollo: I’m sorry. Can we please talk? _

_ [08:23] Missed call from: Apollo _

_ [08:24] Apollo: Please call me back when you can. I want to explain. _

_ [22:31] Apollo: I’m so sorry.  _

12 October 2020

There was a knock at his door. Frowning, he wiped his hands on his paint rag and stood up from his easel, groaning slightly as his back protested.

“You haven’t been to see Enj in two weeks,” said Combeferre before he’d even opened the door all the way, pushing his way into Grantaire’s apartment. 

“Yeah,” said Grantaire. “So?”

“Why?” 

Grantaire swallowed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Combeferre eyed him. “He called me, you know. He was very upset with himself, he said he’d ruined whatever friendship you guys had.”

“You’re damn right he did,” said Grantaire, suddenly unable to hide his rage. “He fucking - ” He stopped himself. “Whatever. I know you’re here to convince me to go back and I’m telling you right now that’s not going to happen.”

Combeferre exhaled hard. “Look - ”

_ “No,  _ Ferre. I don’t know what kind of - You used me to get your friend to feel better and now you’re pissed that I’m not doing you the favor anymore. I don’t want to hear it.” He turned away, sitting back down at his canvas and picking up a brush at random, steadfastly ignoring Combeferre.

“You’re wrong,” said Combeferre quietly. “On all counts, R, completely wrong.”

Grantaire scoffed.

“He’s my friend, true, but you’re my friend, too, and I want it to stay that way. No matter what I want, how you feel matters to me, and I’m not just going to demand that you do something you don’t want to do,” continued Combeferre, as if Grantaire hadn’t made any noise. “But you should know that he’s been torn up these past couple of weeks, he’ll hardly say a word but he’s disgusted with himself and he asked me to tell you he’s sorry.”

“Sorry that what?” asked Grantaire furiously, turning to face Combeferre. “Sorry that I fed him and talked to him and Stockholm Syndromed him into thinking that he wanted me when he’s made it more than clear in every interaction we’ve had outside of this fucking depressive episode that he can’t stand the sight of me?”

“No,” said Combeferre evenly. “He’s sorry that he didn’t explain himself.”

“Explain what? That it was a mistake and he didn’t mean it? I’m not stupid, I’ve figured that out myself.” God, this was insulting.

“No,” said Combeferre again. “You need to talk to him, R.”

“Why? So I can ride in again on my therapy horse and make him feel better? He doesn’t  _ want  _ me, Ferre.”

“Let him tell you what he wants,” said Combeferre. “What you think happened isn’t what happened in his mind.” When Grantaire opened his mouth to argue, Combeferre held up a hand in an uncharacteristically adamant gesture. “R. Talk to him, please. Just hear him out.”

15 October 2020

“Hey,” said Grantaire coolly.

“Hello,” said Enjolras tremulously. “It’s really good to see you. Please, come in.”

“You cleaned this place,” said Grantaire, surprised, as he stepped into the apartment. All of the cereal boxes were gone, the dishes were put away, and the blanket nest was nowhere to be seen. 

“Yes,” said Enjolras, pulling his arms around himself. He looked even worse than when Grantaire had first come to visit.

Grantaire toed off his shoes, sitting down on the old recliner that it looked like Enjolras had actually  _ vacuumed _ .  _ Jesus _ .

Enjolras sat stiffly on the couch opposite him, his arms still wrapped around himself, looking miserable.

“Alright, we both know why I’m here,” said Grantaire. “Let’s get this over with.”

Enjolras inhaled shakily. “Okay,” he said. His shoulders were shaking slightly. Grantaire frowned slightly - why was he so upset? It wasn’t like - 

“I’m so sorry that I just kissed you without asking if it was okay,” began Enjolras, looking near tears. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and seemed to steel himself. “I never intended to do anything you didn’t consent to. And I’m sorry I was unable to explain afterwards what I meant when I kissed you. I did not mean to give the impression that you were obliged to want me back or - or anything. I put enormous pressure on you after you’ve been so kind to me, and I’m sorry. I completely took advantage of you. It was totally unfair of me.” He stopped, staring down at his knees. “I can’t believe I did that,” he said softly, shaking his head. “After you did all that for me. I can’t believe I put you in that position.”

None of this was making sense. “What are you talking about? What position?” 

“I’ve been awful to you,” said Enjolras dully. “Believe me, I’ve had time to think about the things I’ve said to you. You came here when I was at the mouth of hell and you  _ saved  _ me from it, do you realize that? I can never repay that. I was  _ awful  _ to you and then you were so good to me - so I can only imagine how disgusted you were with me when I… I just want you to know that I’ll never - never act on those feelings again, and it was stupid of me to think - It doesn’t matter. I just want to be friends with you again, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you - you give me a chance to prove it.”

“What? No, I’m not disgusted with you,” said Grantaire, and Enjolras let out an enormous breath, looking hugely relieved. “I just - I don’t understand. What made you think you liked me? Like, at all? After you didn’t for so long?”

“I’d never seen that side of you,” said Enjolras, looking at him with a soft expression. “You were - so kind. I didn’t know that someone who could be so  _ obnoxious - ”  _ he chuckled, “could be so selfless. And you still never hesitated to tell me exactly what you think, you don’t treat me like a child. I guess I kind of realized how valuable and amazing your brain is. I just realized that I really like  _ you,  _ like, who you are as a person. I have no idea why I didn’t see it before. I know that’s weird, and probably not believable based on everything I’ve said to you in the past, but I just - ”

“I’m - I’m in love with you,” Grantaire burst out, feeling the words tumble out of his mouth unbidden. “I’m sorry, but you - you have to know. I am crazy,  _ stupidly  _ in love with you. I’m sorry, I just can’t hide it from you any longer.”

Enjolras stared at him, mouth open. “Wh-- ”

“From the first day we met,” interrupted Grantaire, unable to stop himself. “I can’t do this, I know you think you like me but it’s nothing on how I feel about you.” He stood up, breathing heavily. “I - I’ll go. I’m sorry.”

He stood up and lunged for the door, his whole body ice cold, but he didn’t make it before Enjolras’s arms wrapped around him, and he froze. 

“Stay,” came the whisper from behind him.

“I don’t - ” began Grantaire brokenly.

“Maybe I don’t love you yet,” said Enjolras quietly, and Grantaire can hardly breathe for wanting him. “It might take me a while. But I know myself, and I can tell you right now that I’m going to fall in love with you. I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.”

Grantaire took a deep breath. “Are you sure, Apollo? Please, you - you have to be sure.”

The arms around him loosened, and his mind stuttered with panic, but Enjolras asked softly, “Will you turn around?”

When he turned to face him, Enjolras’s hands came up to frame his face, and Enjolras’s mouth was smiling at him. His eyes were more tender than Grantaire had ever dreamed of. “I am sure,” said Enjolras firmly. “Can you stay for just a little longer? I made lasagne.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, fighting back tears.

Enjolras pulled him closer, pressed their foreheads together. “I know you don’t believe in anything, R, but could you believe in me?”

Grantaire’s breath caught in the back of his throat.  _ “Yes.” _

Enjolras put his arms around his shoulders, pulling him even closer, and kissed him, and it was different this time because Grantaire knew that Enjolras wanted him, really actually wanted him, so he grabbed his hips, pulling him flush against himself, wrapping his arms up and around Enjolras’s back, molding their bodies together. He could taste the salt of a tear that slipped down his face into the kiss, and he opened his mouth, hungrily kissing Enjolras until he couldn’t think about anything but the softness of Enjolras’s mouth, the sound he made when Grantaire bit his lower lip, the way his hair curled between his fingers. He couldn’t make himself stop, couldn’t pull himself away until he was desperate for air.

“Sorry,” he gasped, gazing at Enjolras. “Too much?”

“No, don’t apologize,” panted Enjolras, his eyes blown wide. “I - holy shit - ” And, apparently unable to stop himself, he dove back in, kissing Grantaire with abandon, cradling his head with his hands so tenderly that Grantaire felt his knees give a little.

Eventually, Enjolras pulled back. “Sorry, but I’m going to burn the lasagne,” he said softly, smiling so widely that his whole face lit up with it. His lips were red and swollen with kisses and his hair was mussed and Grantaire had never been so in love in his entire life. 

“Okay,” said Grantaire, and let Enjolras lead him by the hand into the warmth of the kitchen.


End file.
